


if you were coming in the fall

by emirens



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Apology Scones, Canon-Typical Jon Doesn't Know How To Have Proper Feelings, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Romance, gratuitous use of poetry, it's just autumn-themed happiness folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-16 02:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emirens/pseuds/emirens
Summary: Jonathan Sims has a thesis draft to write, an archive to organize, and a graduate degree depending on it all.  He has a deadline, and a schedule that he intends on following to the minute.  He's accounted for any number of contingencies.What he did not account for was Martin Blackwood.(an autumn-themed university au full of awkwardness, poetry, and pastries.)





	if you were coming in the fall

**Author's Note:**

> All art is from the indescribably talented Liz (lizordlike on tumblr); go tell her how amazing it is! 
> 
> Warnings: there are a few very brief and non-descriptive references to past school-related anxiety.

_If you were coming in the fall, _

_ I’d brush the summer by_

_ With half a smile and half a spurn, _

_As housewives do a fly._

_-Emily Dickinson_

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183274959@N02/48496668757/in/photostream/)

Jonathan Sims did not like libraries.

This was odd, given that he was currently pursuing a graduate degree in library science. But, he mused, he definitely had a good reason. And he liked most public libraries, with their quiet, air-conditioned atmosphere of decorum. So it would be more accurate to say that he did not like _university _libraries.

The first floor of this particular university library was designated for group work, and was therefore loud and crowded. Undergrads with sweatshirts and noise-canceling headphones moved frantically about, trying to find an adequate spot. Jon was in much the same position, although he lacked their casual apparel.

_Typical, _he thought. Just his luck that administration was repainting all the basement offices in the weeks before his first draft was due. He was looking around for the stairs, considering trying one of the higher floors, when someone crashed directly into him.

Hot liquid of some kind spilled over the files he was carrying, and he snatched his hand away reflexively.

“Shit!” squeaked the man who’d run into him. “I am so, so sorry, are- are you okay? Is your hand – ”

“I’m fine, no thanks to _you_,” Jon spat. “What the _hell _did you get all over my papers?”

“It’s- it’s apple cider,” the man said, trying to collect the papers Jon had dropped. “I’m- I’m so sorry, are you burned? I can get some lotion, or maybe some cold water-”

“You’ve done _quite enough,_ cider in a library, what in God’s name were you _thinking?”_

The man somehow managed to look terrified of Jon despite the fact that he was a good six inches taller. “I- we- we sell it, I work for- for an orchard, a local orchard, and we sell cider and pastries and such here, in the- Listen, are you sure there isn’t anything I can get you? Some towels, or water, or a scone, or –”

“I said _no,” _Jon said with finality, and stormed off to the stairwell. He ducked into a restroom on the designated quiet floor and set to attempting to clean his documents. They were small cards, from the university’s now-defunct card catalogue system, now stained an unfortunate muted orange. Seemed to be legible still, thank God. He sighed.

“Of course today of all days,” he muttered, and got a look from an entering undergrad in response. _They _didn’t have a meeting with their terrifying thesis advisor to get to. _They _weren’t trying to blot apple cider from decades-old index cards.

Jon’s thesis was less a research document and more of an organizational project. About a half-year ago he had arrived at the university to find the old archivist, Gertrude Robinson, rather abruptly putting in her two weeks. She had left the archives- really just a large room in the library basement- in a state of virtual chaos. And so Jon was tasked with cleaning up the mess.

Worse still, the university was trying to get involved, he thought as he dodged overstuffed backpacks. In about two months the campus would celebrate another centennial, and people wanted to know the history of the place. Unfortunately, the history of the place was covered in cobwebs and a layer of dust so thick you were better off taking a core sample. 

\-----

Seven minutes. That was the ideal time to be early to any meeting scheduled by his thesis advisor, Jon had discovered. Time enough to account for any unexpected delays, but not too much that he would be waiting outside the door for ages. His thesis advisor typically let him in to the office about a minute and a half before the scheduled start, so that they began to discuss business precisely on time.

Sure enough, the office door opened at 1:13 in the afternoon. “Do come in, Jon,” he said, and shut the door neatly behind him. Jon sat down in the old leather chair in front of the massive mahogany desk. The words _Dr. Elias Bouchard _were engraved on a small plaque. 

“Right, let’s get started,” said Elias. “First off- your TA performance. The grades for my Overview of Research Methods class have been unusually low since you started. I believe you have been grading them too harshly. The class is meant to be, well, an _overview._ And it is offered to undergraduates.”

“It’s a senior-level class, Elias,” Jon argued. “They’re not idiots, they just aren’t thinking.”

“If their performance is not up to your exacting standards, I would suggest making yourself more available as a resource,” said Elias. “That _is _part of your job, after all.” Jon muttered a vague assent.

“Now. The second thing is,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “the deadline for your draft.”

“I’m on schedule. The deadline is two weeks from now.”

“It _was _two weeks from now.”

Shit. “What exactly do you mean by that,” Jon said flatly.

“The dean had to move all of the graduate student presentations to next week, Jon,” said Elias, looking less sorry than Jon would like. “You will need the first draft by then. The dean will be evaluating the archive program based mostly on your work.”

“And- and there’s _nothing _we can do to get more time,” Jon said, imploring.

“I’m afraid not. You see, the historical society…”

Jon let his eyes wander as Elias rambled on with excuses that wouldn’t spare him any sleepless nights. They landed on Elias’s wedding ring. It was silver, inlaid with tiny stones set in a pattern resembling waves, or maybe fog. Jon didn’t know much about rings, but it looked expensive.

“…and so I really can’t move this back again. I am sorry, Jon. I trust you’ll be able to finish the draft by then?”

Jon nodded. _Not that I have much of a choice, _he thought.

“You’ve chosen this degree, Jon,” Elias said, like he’d been listening. “I have complete and utter faith that you will see this through.” He opened a drawer and gathered some papers together, stacking them along the edge of the desk. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run- department meeting in ten.”

Jon checked his watch. It was 1:35. Elias always seemed to know the time. “I- I see. Thank you, Elias.”

“Of course,” he replied, and set out down the long hallway.

\---

Jon collapsed onto the battered old couch within minutes of walking in the door. The Admiral jumped out from under it and mewled at him in admonishment. “Oh hush, I’ve had a day,” he muttered in response. The Admiral sniffed and padded away into the kitchen.

“Jon, hope that’s you traumatizing the poor Admiral and not a serial murderer,” Georgie called from the kitchen.

“Yes, Georgie, it’s me,” he called back.

“I’ve got takeaway if you haven’t eaten.”

“That sounds great, thanks,” Jon said. Georgie truly was a blessing. They had dated once, several years before, and had broken up with the relative intensity of a category 4 hurricane. After several years of self-reflection, she graciously allowed him to sublease the spare room in her apartment. Georgie provided Jon with leftover takeaway, an unscrupulous cat, and a caring friendship. Jon provided Georgie with- with something. To be honest, he wasn’t quite sure.

“You look like hell,” she said, settling onto the couch next to him. “Elias getting ornery again?”

“Not quite,” he replied. “Some idiot ran into me in the main library and spilled hot cider all over the old catalog cards.”

“Undergrad?” she mumbled through a mouthful of rice.

Jon shook his head. “Not even a student! He was selling scones and cider near the entrance. Looked like from some local orchard. Why anyone allows that nonsense in a library of all places, I’ll never know.”

“Must make a good bit of cash, though,” Georgie said. “Hungry students and all. Did you catch the name of the orchard?”

“Lukas, I think it was. Lukas Farms maybe?”

She nodded. “I have a friend who works there. Good cider.”

“Not good on paper,” Jon muttered. Georgie rolled her eyes at him. Swinging her long legs off the side of the couch, she headed for the kitchen.

“Not everything’s about your old books, you know,” she called over her shoulder. “Some things are about good food and good company!”

“I take it your date went well, then,” he called back. Georgie poked her head back out at him.

“Oh, it was miserable,” she said cheerily. “He was the dullest person I’ve ever met.”

“… but he paid for your Hungarian food.”

“But he did pay for my Hungarian food, yeah,” she grinned.

**** **\---**

Well. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but at least he had his archives back.

Whoever had painted the basement rooms had apparently decided the place was in need of a drastic change in interior design. They had neglected to return the filing cabinets to their original position on the wall, leaving them shoved in front of other filing cabinets.

Jon decided to burn _that _particular bridge when he came to it. Perhaps out of sheer luck he wouldn’t require any of the files from the blocked cabinets. Of course, Jonathan Sims was not a man known for his exceptionally good luck, but maybe this time the karmic scale of the universe would tip in his favor.

No matter, he thought brusquely. Inaccessibility was a small price to pay for a quiet, peaceful, cider-free workspace. And truly anything was better than undergraduates.

He opened his computer again to the draft. It could be worse, he supposed, given the situation. A few late nights before the deadline were inevitable, but he had outlined the damn thing down to the page. Based on the archive’s inventory list, he should have a near-complete historical record from the university founding until today. All he had to do was compile the documents, finish the damn paper, and present to retirees who had nothing better to do than prove their great aunt so-and-so had Owned University Land and as such Contributed to University Society. 

Jon rolled his eyes. He could practically hear Elias now, with his _these-people-pay-your-salaries. _ The people of the historical society did donate heavily to the university and to the archives in particular. And while Jon could not be said to have the strongest sense of self-preservation, even he could admit that it was probably wise to not piss them off.

One week, then. One week to collect the documents, write the draft, practice the presentation, and charm the donors into believing he was worthy of the meagre salary they currently paid him and the future head archivist job he desperately wanted.

Jon looked down at his keyboard. His hands had stubbornly not typed a single letter. Charm, he thought morosely. My _winning _personality will not get me the job, my _work _might, but here I am wasting my time_ spiraling… _Christ, it was _so goddamn easy _to get in his own head about this, back into old thoughts and old habits and -

There was a knock at the door.

“Um- hello? Is this – ”

There was a bit of muffled cluttering, and then two more nervous-sounding knocks. “Hello?”

“Come in,” Jon said.

The man who entered was so tall that he barely fit in the door frame, but he seemed to be actively making himself as small as possible, as if Jon were a frightened animal. He looked vaguely familiar- thick, messy hair, and broad shoulders, and he was clutching a brown paper bag that said _Lukas Family Orchards, _and –

At the exact moment that Jon connected the dots, the man began to speak.

“Uh, hi?” he asked, though it was not a question. “I’m- I’m Martin, we, uh, we met, yesterday, uh – ”

“I remember quite clearly,” said Jon, clipped. “You dumped cider on my index cards.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Martin’s face turned rather pink.

“Why are you here.” This was also not a question.

“I’m – Listen, I’m trying to apologize,” Martin said. “I just thought – that we got off on the wrong foot, as it were, and – oh, probably not the best turn of phrase, but – ”

“I happen to be very busy,” Jon interrupted, “and I would appreciate not being disturbed by halfhearted attempts at a _sales pitch_, so if you wouldn’t mind – ”

“I’m not - I’m not _selling_ you anything!” said Martin. He pushed the paper bag onto Jon’s desk rather aggressively. “I - there are scones, _apology _scones, I baked you scones to say I’m sorry, about the cider, _Christ.”_

Jon blinked. “Apology scones?” he asked.

“Yes,” Martin answered. “I got your name from Tim and figured I could. Well. Apologize.”

Jon thought this over very briefly. For one thing, he very badly wanted Martin to be out of his office. For the second, he did not possess the gift of understanding even normal social minutia, and he felt that apology scones were slightly beyond that anyways.

“Okay,” he said. “Do try not to be so _clumsy _in the future.”

For a brief second, Martin looked hurt, and Jon felt vaguely guilty about his cold manner. Martin did leave immediately after, though, and that had been his goal, and maybe if he left the archives in such a hurry it meant that Jon wouldn’t have to deal with him or his cider anymore.

The air conditioner hummed, and Jon settled into his normal working routine. To anyone else, it would have seemed almost rhythmic- from the keyboard to the files and back again, as it were. Sometimes he felt like his workdays were on a time lapse, watched like the rolling clouds in a nature documentary.

There weren’t any windows in the archives, it being underground and all. Perhaps Elias had designed it that way, Jon thought wryly, like a casino. Although of course Elias hadn’t been alive when the archives were designed. And even if he could see the sun Jon would have probably worked himself long past nightfall.

He glanced at the clock on the computer screen. It was certainly long past nightfall.

He sighed, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. Breathe, he reminded himself, and counted through the breaths. In for four, hold for eight, release for ten. He’d been to therapy, after his first semester in graduate school. Heeded the wake-up call, as it were. At first he’d thought it was all rather- silly, or juvenile, even, but it worked, sometimes. And that was- good. It was good. He was trying.

Jon released the breath he’d been holding one last time when his eye caught on the paper bag on his desk. Apology scones, he remembered. Might as well.

The sound of the crinkling parchment paper seemed almost violent in the still of the archives, and Jon winced. He took a small and careful bite.

Some food experiences can be, and have been, described as religious. Trumpets and angels and holy rapture and expressions as struck as those in Renaissance sculpture [1].This one- well, Jon wasn’t religious, so he didn’t quite understand the melodrama, but. He was forced to admit it. The scones were _divine_, much as his internal ascetic cringed even thinking the word. They didn’t smell much like anything, but there was a lingering smell of paint that might have gotten in the way of that. They weren’t warm, since they’d been lying neglected on his desk for hours. But even with those faults, they were _almost _worth being run over by a giant bumbling idiot and burnt to a cinnamon-scented crisp.

Almost. 

\---

The next day brought a cool wind that would have been pleasant if not for the rain. Jon came in soaked and shivering through the basement door, his patience for the day effectively drained.

He opened the draft of his thesis. A bit more progress from the last two days, but not nearly enough to make the deadline. The process would be so much simpler if Gertrude had left the archives in any state of order.

A sudden ping from his laptop- another email from the historical society, asking him for updates regarding the gap in the university land ownership records. “No, I don’t have any _updates_,” he muttered, clicking harder than was strictly necessary to close the tab. That infernal gap in information was dealing serious damage to the coherence of the historical society’s narrative. Jon _knew _the documents were out there- they had a filing record from about forty years ago. Not being able to find them did not indicate success in his chosen field. The closest thing to a “public-facing role” an archivist would ever get, and he was well on his way to butchering it.

Someone sounded two crisp knocks on his door. “Come in,” he called, without much enthusiasm.

“Hello, Jon,” said Elias. “Just dropping by to return these.” He walked past Jon’s desk into the maze of filing cabinets.

Jon nodded mutely and continued to type with determination. Maybe if he looked like he was working _really _hard Elias wouldn’t try to draw him into conversation. He’d rather be buried alive than suffer that man’s efforts at human connection. The experience would probably be less suffocating.

“So, Jon,” Elias said, nailing the lid on the metaphorical coffin. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine, thank you,” Jon said.

“Sleeping enough? Sleep is very important for a healthy mind, Jon.”

“Er- yes,” Jon lied.

“Excellent,” Elias said smoothly, making his way out. He looked back at Jon with his hand on the doorframe. His ring finger was noticeably bare. “While I am glad you are working so hard, I must recommend spending time on your personal life as well. It’s good to have balance, after all.”

“Ah- thank you, Elias,” Jon said, feeling very much like he was underneath a hundred cubic feet of metaphorical dirt.

“Of course,” Elias replied, and finally left.

Nothing to do but get back to work again. He was barely half an hour into his typing and searching routine, though, when _another _knock came at the door. This was implausible, given the only person on campus who right much cared had already left. “This isn’t the restrooms,” he called, rolling his eyes.

“I- I know?”

The door creaked open like it was afraid it’d fall off its hinges. And taking up much of the old frame stood- stood Martin. _Again._

Jon felt his usual scowl migrate south for the winter. “_Christ, _what do you want _now,”_ he said. “Skiving off what little work you do up there?” 

Martin, to his credit, did not immediately flee at this acrid welcome. “I- No,” he said, only a little shaky. “Here.” He placed another brown paper bag down deliberately. 

“You- ah, you already apologized,” Jon said, already regretting his outburst. 

“Oh, and that went so well!” A second later, Martin seemed to realize he had said this out loud, and the tips of his ears went pink. He swallowed. “I just- I thought I might. Hm. Try again.” 

Jon blinked. 

“We had apple turnovers today,” Martin continued. “And I thought- I’d try to keep apologizing. And maybe you didn’t like the scones, and something else would be better, and - ”

“The scones were- they were fine. Good, even,” Jon said. “This is unnecessary.” 

Martin’s face twisted into an expression of slightly disbelieving disgust before he seized control of it again. He cleared his throat. “Well, thank you? I think. I’ll just- I’ll just go. Wouldn’t want to disturb you _further_,” he said, and walked out the door. 

Jon was no master of the intricacies of human interaction. However, he had a sinking feeling that he deserved the sudden venom with which Martin had flavored his parting words. He’d only met the man, what, twice? Three times? And every time Martin had been nothing but apologetic and earnest. 

And now he’d driven Martin to sarcasm. Excellent work. 

He sighed and carded his fingers through his hair. The bag Martin had left smelled of sweet cinnamon. Might as well accept the apology, Jon thought, and opened it to reveal apple turnovers, dusted on top with cinnamon sugar. He took a hesitant bite. 

Just as good as the scones, and maybe better since they were _warm. _ Perfectly tart apples, a surprisingly harmonious orange flavor, some other spices he couldn’t identify, the pastry delicate and buttery, and a sneaking suspicion that in exchange for this, he could forgive _anything_. 

Jon rolled his eyes at his own treacherous thoughts. He always did have a flair for the dramatic. 

He also had a conscience, he remembered, and frowned when he thought about Martin’s biting sarcasm. Cider in the library notwithstanding, the man probably didn’t deserve the full force of a sleep-deprived Jon snapping at him. 

Martin had apologized, several times now, he thought, so he would do the same. Decided, he closed his laptop and began the climb up to the main floor. 

It was the middle of the day. The library wasn’t terribly crowded, with students being in classes. He walked to the foyer area and quickly spotted a small line of students in front of a plastic table. The sign read _Lukas Family Orchards_ in the same plain font as the paper bags. He got in the line and waited. 

“What can I get you t- oh.” Martin looked surprised and understandably displeased upon seeing Jon at his table. 

“Er- right,” Jon said, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. “I just- I wanted to apologize. To, ah, to you.” Martin’s face had risen from ‘surprised annoyance’ to ‘solidly neutral’, so maybe that was a good sign. “I was rude to you. I’m- I’ve got this deadline, for my thesis, so I might have been more, ah, _unpleasant_, than usual”- Martin’s face was falling again, so Jon swiftly course-corrected - “Which, ah, which is no excuse, of course. But the outbursts were unnecessary, and for that I’m… I’m sorry.” 

Jon was well aware by this point that there were a few students standing in line behind him that were being treated to his reality television monologue. He looked plaintively up at Martin, who was now smiling. 

“Thanks, Jon. I- I appreciate it,” he said, and his lips quirked like he was trying to hide his grin. “Can I get you anything?” 

“No, that’s- that’s alright, thank you Martin,” Jon said, nodding stiffly. He turned and headed back down to the archives. His face felt sort of warm. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183274959@N02/48496506671/in/photostream/)

\--- 

Another day gone by, and Jon was no closer to finding the missing university deed. 

He was admittedly beginning to lose hope, having searched through most of the cabinets that the painters hadn’t blocked off. The record showed that it _had _been here, in the library, and must have been thrown to the archives during the renovation. Everything was just such a mess… 

“Ah, hello?” said a familiar voice. A familiar head peaked around the open door. 

“I’m rather- oh, it’s you,” said Jon. He looked down at his papers. “Did you, ah, did you need something?” 

“No, I’m- I came to give you these,” Martin said, handing over another paper bag. “They’re apple fritters. Be careful if you have a sensitive stomach- they’re very rich.” 

Jon’s hands took the bag automatically, since his brain had absolutely no idea what was going on. “You didn’t need to - We’re even, Martin, you don’t have to apologize anymore.” 

Martin shrugged. “I’ve always got extras, though, and you- well, you seem so tense,” he said in a rush. “I mean- sorry- just - ” He cleared his throat. “What are you working on?” 

“My thesis,” Jon replied, thoroughly flummoxed by this development. 

“Oh?” said Martin. Silence hovered awkwardly in the air and Jon truly had no idea how to shoo it away. 

“So… what’s it about?” Martin asked. “The thesis, I mean.” 

“It’s, uh, it’s an archiving project,” said Jon, “about the history of the university. Sort of… sort of a joint effort between the historical society and Elias- Dr. Bouchard, that is, he’s my advisor.”

“I think I know a Dr. Bouchard,” Martin said. “Does he wear a lot of suits?” 

“Of course he wears suits, he’s a professor, Martin, he has a certain- _standard _to maintain,” Jon said primly. Martin blushed. 

“I- I know _that, _Jon, I just think I’ve seen him at the orchard,” said Martin. “Bit odd to wear suits at an orchard.” Jon made a noncommittal noise and looked back down at his papers. “So what are you working on now?” 

The noise of the papers shuffling in Jon’s hands was loud in the quiet basement room. “Looking for a deed- ownership record, for the school,” Jon said. “There’s about two decades’ worth of missing information, and plenty of wealthy people looking to claim that _their _family had ownership at the time.” 

“Sounds difficult,” said Martin. 

“It shouldn’t be, but with the state this place was left in, it is,” Jon muttered. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. 

“Listen, Jon - ” Martin hesitated. “I’ve also brought… I made some tea? If you’d like some,” he said in a rush, “I mean, maybe you don’t even drink tea, or you don’t- don’t want to risk a spill, ha, or - ” 

“I do,” Jon said. “Drink tea. And I won’t spill it,” he added, only a touch derisive. 

“Right,” said Martin. “I’ll just - here - ” He placed a cup ever so gently on Jon’s desk. “Good luck!” he squeaked, and walked out the door. 

That was- odd, Jon supposed. He curled his fingers around the styrofoam cup, warm against the chill of the air conditioner. Shockingly, it didn’t smell like apples. It was just regular unsweetened black tea. 

That was kind of Martin, Jon thought, even though it had interrupted his work. He took a bite of pastry. Good thing the tea was unsweetened, too- the slight bitterness paired well with the sugary apple fritter. He supposed he’d give credit to Martin for that foresight as well. Perhaps the man was less dense than he’d thought. 

The ping of an email notification brought his focus back to the work at hand. He certainly couldn’t afford to waste any more time. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183274959@N02/48496466066/in/photostream/)

**** **\---**

“Damned- thing- won’t- ”

Jon collapsed his head against the side of the bookshelf, breathing heavily. The workmen had moved the thing directly in front of the cabinet which housed a particular census he needed. Naturally, his thin frame could not move it an inch. He sighed heavily, about to abandon himself to frustration, when-

“Oh! Jon!”

“Christ, Martin!” Jon exclaimed. “Give a man a bit of warning.”

“Sorry, sorry! It just seemed like… I mean….” He gestured to the shelf. “Would you, I mean, do you want me to, ah, to move that… out of the way?”

“I…” Jon sighed again. “You know what. If you want to give it a go, by all means, be my guest.”

Martin brightened like Jon’s sheer acceptance of his help had somehow made his day. It was silly, really, Jon thought as he moved a few files out of the way. Had he truly nothing better to do?

A sudden scraping pulled Jon from his thoughts. Martin had one shoulder braced against the shelf and was slowly but surely moving it forwards. The scrape continued until the file cabinet behind it was revealed, and Martin turned to face him, face flushed but triumphant.

“There! Is that enough room for you?” Martin asked, only slightly breathless. “If not, I can probably get it a bit further-”

“No, no thank you Martin, that’s, uh… that’s quite sufficient, thank you,” said Jon.

“Alright! Well, here's your, uh… we had fudge today, so here’s some of that,” Martin said, handing over a small paper bag. “Is there… is there anything else you need, from the, the… outside world?”

“No, ah, no.” Martin wasn’t leaving, so surely there was something else he was supposed to say here. Oh, right, gratitude. “Thank you, Martin.”

Again, Martin gave a soft smile and nodded. Jon could see the dust stirred up from the shelf, floating lazily in front of Martin’s still-flushed face. 

“Uh, I’ve got to…” Jon gestured to his desk.

“Oh! Yes, sorry, sorry,” said Martin, and - “Enjoy the fudge!” He turned and shut the archive door gently behind him.

Jon sat down at his desk, closed his eyes, and considered this latest encounter. Martin did not seem like he could have moved that shelf. Granted, he was not a small man, Jon mused, remembering the span of Martin’s broad shoulders. But he had assumed Martin’s size was some odd combination of genetics and one too many of his own pastries, not- not _muscle_. Given this new information, Martin could probably lift _him _without much trouble at all.

Jon shook his head. Focus, he reminded himself, and moved the fudge out of the way of the files. Solving the puzzle of Martin Blackwood would not help him meet his deadlines.

\---

Jon did not _storm _into the apartment, but it was a close thing. He dropped his things by the door and the brown paper bag he was carrying on their coffee table, and took his usual place next to Georgie on their couch. She immediately grabbed the paper bag and, upon finding the fudge, claimed it for herself. Jon gave her a pitiful glance.

“It’s my payment,” she said through the fudge. She swallowed. “I can tell you’re about to bitch about something, so this is my listening fee!”

“Fine,” Jon said. “It’s only the usual, after all. Elias and his inane scheduling, being _completely _unqualified to teach anyone, and now _Martin _underfoot every damn morning-”

He was briefly interrupted by the Admiral’s plaintive meowing, and Georgie patiently petted him, nodding at Jon to continue.

He cleared his throat. “He’s just. _There. _So often. He feels the need to bring in these- these _pastries _and such, as some sort of apology, though God knows I’d rather forget matter entirely, because _I_, unlike _him, _have _actual work to do.”_

“I take it Elias still hasn’t budged on the historical meeting, then?” Georgie asked. Jon sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“No. He didn’t even respond to my last email. Wanted to lecture me on my- my _personal _life, of all things. Told me I needed _balance_, like he isn’t half the reason I’ve hardly had time to sleep,” he said. “The other half being _Martin _and his _incessant pastries.”_

Georgie laughed. “Christ, you’re hard on him! I asked Melanie about him the other day at practice, she said he was sweet, if a bit naïve.”

“He’s just bothersome,” Jon muttered.

“Clearly, if you’re so hung up about him.” He scoffed.

“I am most certainly not- _hung up.”_

Georgie did not look convinced by this defense. “It certainly sounds like he’s been on your mind often enough,” she pointed out. Her eyes brightened suddenly, and Jon recognized with apprehension her _I’ve figured it out _expression. She turned to him with a growing smile. “You _fancy _him!”

Jon sputtered. “I- I do _not!”_

“You do! You’re angry because you don’t know how to have proper feelings!”

“_Christ_, Georgie!”

She shrugged matter-of-factly. “Sorry, sorry, no psychoanalyzing in the apartment. But I do think it’s true.”

“It _isn’t_,” he insisted. “Martin is nothing but a bother, one that I’ve already explained that I _don’t have the time for, _and-” He cleared his throat. “It’s- it’s perfectly ridiculous.”

“So there’s no other reason you’re thinking about him so often?” she asked.

“No, Georgie, there _isn’t_, please- please just drop it.”

She shrugged again, apparently too tired to continue battling Jon’s stubbornness. “Well, if you really want to stop thinking about it, you could try paying him back for all these baked goods,” she said. “At this rate he’ll put the place out of business.”

He nodded stiffly. They sat there for a few minutes, listening to the hum of the radiator and the Admiral’s purring. Eventually, Jon turned his head to find Georgie already looking back at him with a softer expression.

“Things will be alright, Jon,” she said. “With Elias, with your work… all of it.”

Jon cracked a weary smile. His hands fiddled awkwardly with the edge of Georgie’s pillow, and he looked, lost in thought, out into the middle distance. “I do… appreciate it, you know,” he said softly. “You, being here to… to listen.”

“I know you do,” she replied. “I’ve known you for long enough to figure it out.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though,” he said. “I should… I still need to work on- on how to tell you. Tell people.” 

The Admiral padded across the couch and meowed again, and Georgie ran her hand through his fur. “You are working on it, Jon,” she said softly. “I’m sure you’ll get there.”

\----

Yesterday had been the fourth day that Martin had brought baked goods into the archives. Something different each time, although none had yet topped his first “apology scone”. And never cider. This time he had asked about Jon’s work again, and suffered an even more stilted explanation of his thesis. The most puzzling part of this was that Martin had seemed genuinely curious. After all, what reason would he have to care?

This line of thinking was interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone. Nothing critical, a text from Georgie reminding him to buy cat food, but it did bring Jon’s attention to the lateness of the afternoon. “Distracted again,” he muttered to himself. He considered what Georgie had mentioned the previous night. Maybe paying Martin back for his pastries would put closure on the matter.

Decided, Jon picked up his wallet and headed to the main floor. It was a Thursday, and the area was crowded. He moved warily over to the orchard stand. As he approached the table, Jon noticed that the person sitting there was not Martin.

“You’re not Martin,” he said.

The woman’s expression hid none of her obvious disdain for his brilliant observation. “Other people do work here, y’know. I’m Daisy.”

Flummoxed by this unexpected development, Jon stood in silence.

“So… are you going to buy something, or…”

“Oh! Yes,” said Jon, fumbling for his wallet. “I’ll take a- a muffin.” He laid a handful of bills on the table. Daisy raised an eyebrow.

“It’s one muffin.”

“Ah, I know,” he mumbled. “Just, ah, give the rest to Martin? I owe him.”

She shrugged, and handed him a paper bag. “Sure, whatever.” Jon took the bag and headed out of the library, wondering why he couldn’t ever manage to interact like a normal human being.

\----

It was raining again as he waited for the bus, raindrops drumming steadily on his umbrella. He let his mind wander while the bus pulled up to the street corner. Muted by the clouds, the fall colors of the trees flew by. Something in the back of his mind whispered about papers, and deadlines, and expectations. Old habits, trying to push the old guilt over him. Guilt for a wandering mind, even one just riding the bus.

He shut his eyes. Focus, Jon reminded himself. The irony of having to focus on letting his mind relax was not lost on him- it was as old as the guilt. The breakup with Georgie had been less of a wake-up call and more of a nuclear warning siren, indicating it was time to accomplish some long-overdue self-reflection. He was trying, he was always trying for compassion. Trying to have compassion for himself as well. 

Martin seemed like a man who knew compassion, at least in the form of apple-flavored baked goods, he thought. Looked at the bus window again, idly switching his focus from the raindrops on the glass to the landscape going by and back again. If only such things were as easy as scones.

\---

Jon checked his watch. 2:15, which should be early enough to get set up, he thought. He was responsible for proctoring some exam for some literature professor who was rumored to never actually attend the classes he presumably taught. Jon wouldn’t have volunteered for the dreary job, of course, but Elias had asked it as a rather pointed favor. He had also been wearing his wedding ring again, Jon remembered, which seemed to be present or absent depending on the day. Strange man.

He approached the classroom with its faded linoleum tiles, and was about to barge in when he realized there was a class still in session. Less than twenty students, looking up slightly glazed at a short professor with one gold earring. Most of them seemed young, but there were some who- wait. Jon looked closer. One of the students looked almost like – _Martin_?

Yes, there was Martin, Martin sitting in the second row, looking up at where the ex-hippie was writing metrical patterns on the chalkboard. And metrical patterns! It was a _poetry _class, Jon realized. What was Martin doing in a _poetry _lecture? He wasn’t even sure the man was literate. Well, that was slightly unfair- Martin had asked after his thesis, after all, and Jon supposed he did have to be able to read the recipes, but that was a far cry from poetry, and – oh. The students had started to pack up. The class was ending.

Jon fled to the bathroom, face burning for a reason he couldn’t really discern. No need for any awkward conversations, he reasoned. He would just wait a few more minutes, walk back to the classroom, and –

“You ready for the quiz next week, then?”

Of _course _it was Martin’s voice. He ducked into a stall. Why had he done that? Why was his heart racing? Christ, this was ridiculous.

Someone answered him with a laugh. “Graduation’s in what, five weeks? Iambic trimeter is the last thing on my mind.”

“Not even going to pretend to care, then, Tim?” It sounded like Martin was joking, Jon thought, but he couldn’t really tell without a facial expression. He heard the sink running, and couldn’t make out what- what this _Tim _was saying, but it was getting more distant, and- yes, that was the door.

Jon came out of the stall and looked miserably in the mirror. He splashed some water on his face, which still felt hot, and prayed to any god who’d listen that Georgie never found out about this nonsense.

\----

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183274959@N02/48496685042/in/photostream/)

Jon sat at his desk in the dusty basement, long past nightfall. A cold half-cup of tea lay neglected by his left hand and a damningly blank document sat open on his laptop. He was trying to decipher some love letter from the second dean, who might have had the worst handwriting of the nineteenth century. Post-it notes with possible interpretations of the scribbled mess were scattered on the desk, garishly colorful against the old wood. He was not making very much progress.

The next word seemed to start with a p, but the remainder was slightly smudged. Could have been… penny? Peony? Each possibility got a new post-it. Jesus, how could _anyone _read this shit, Jon thought. Impressive, that this old bastard could woo with illegible script in an almost entirely letter-based communication system. He leaned closer into the page. Poetry? It might say poetry. Poetry, and what had Martin been doing hanging around a _poetry _lecture, anyways?

He sighed and closed the laptop. No point in pretending he was going to get anything done.

Martin had seemed so attentive in the lecture, Jon remembered. He was taking careful notes, and his expression was- rapt, Jon thought, or wondrous. _Mirabile visu_ [2]. He seemed to be intensely present in a way that Jon hadn’t really noticed before. Not that he hadn’t always perfectly present in the archives, certainly present enough to be a nuisance, but- 

Jon’s gaze caught on the tea. The room still smelled ever so faintly of cinnamon, or maybe he was just wishing it did.

_Not everything’s about your old books, you know._

He missed Martin. Not as a nuisance. As a presence. He missed his scones, and his tea, and his quiet kindness. The potent combination of habit and denial had convinced him otherwise long enough, Jon thought, and there was probably something to be said for honesty. Even if it was only to himself. 

_ So there’s no other reason you’re thinking about him so often?_

Honesty, then. He didn’t want to “solve the mystery” of Martin’s job, or Martin’s poetry, or Martin. For God’s sake, the man was an open book- half Jon’s questions went unanswered because he hadn’t _asked_. Georgie, he thought wryly, just may have been right. He’d always been terrible with- with feeling things.

And he _was_ feeling them. Things. About… Martin. Jon put a weary hand to his forehead and laughed quietly at himself.

“Something funny, Jon?”

Elias had walked into the archives with an armful of file folders, wearing a sardonic smile.

“Nothing- ah, nothing in particular. Just a strange day,” he said. “Did you need something?”

“Just dropping off the files you requested,” Elias replied, setting them on the desk. Jon watched him notice the half-empty cup of tea.

“You know, you really should be careful with that,” said Elias. “Wouldn’t want anything to stain.”

“Yes, yes, I will be,” said Jon. He moved the cup slightly out of the way. “Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s all, thank you,” Elias said, nodding, and walked with long strides out the door. He paused in the doorway and gave another strange smile, like he was in on some secret joke. “By the way, you should try the scones from the orchard selling upstairs. They’re quite lovely.”

“Thanks,” Jon mumbled, but Elias had already gone.

\---

The revelation that Jon _was_ capable of enough introspection to notice his own romantic interest came at a particularly inopportune time. He had abandoned the search for the missing deed for now, but he was quickly running out of other things to write. Soon the deed would be the only thing left. 

The deed that he was _almost certain _wasn’t in the archives _anywhere_. He’d spent hours sitting in that particularly nasty strain of frustration when something is lost. He’d gone through every catalogue, every drawer, every _email_. Jon had even tried his grandmother’s method- praying to Saint Anthony, who apparently (despite his sainthood) didn’t get reception at the bottom of a dusty basement archive. 

A now-familiar knock sounded at the door. Jon quickly replaced one panic with another. “Ah, come in!” 

It was, of course, Martin. 

“Hi- uh, hello Jon,” Martin said, looking particularly cheerful despite the approach of midterms. He was carrying another brown paper bag. 

“Martin,” said Jon, in a voice he prayed contained no noticeable emotion. 

“I have apple crisp today, if- if you’d like some, and tea. I only have black, though, and, uh,” Martin fumbled, fidgeting the top of the bag in his large fingers, “well. You, uh… I think you need to sleep?” 

Jon blinked. He wondered distantly if it was possible to feel so tired that the human brain was running on auxiliary power. If it was, then his brain had an odd sense of priorities; last on the list being _hold a conversation_.

“Right,” he said, after a long pause[3]. “I- that’d be- acceptable, Martin, thank you.” _Acceptable? What in God’s name - _

Martin only smiled, though, with endless patience and a bit of pity on the side. He held out the bag. Jon took it, with care not to brush his fingers against Martin’s, just so as not to startle him with air-conditioning cold hands - 

“I have to ask,” said Martin. “Why, ah - Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

This was all said very fast, which made the silence that followed seem to be especially lengthy. 

Jon surprised even himself when he broke it by- by laughing. He took his glasses off and rubbed at his tired eyes, and laughed. “Sorry,” he said, in between what can only be described as giggles, “Sorry- I, uh. I don’t think either of us are very good at conversations.” 

Martin’s confused and slightly panicked expression dawned into a relieved smile. “I think you’re right about that.” 

“I haven’t slept often because I still haven’t found the deed,” Jon explained. “It’s- well, it’s almost the last piece. And the people paying for my degree are expecting a complete record.” 

“Who owned the property before the missing deed?” 

“Fellow named Jonah Magnus. Wealthy, obviously, but none of today’s historical society claims him as their… patron ancestor. They all want evidence of someone else.” 

“Huh,” said Martin. “Well… I hope you find it, Jon. And I hope you sleep. And enjoy the crisp.” 

Jon sighed. “Me too.” He began to sort a few papers together, then paused. “And… thank you.” 

“Of course!” said Martin. He smiled wider this time, and closed the door gently behind him. 

There were times where Jon thought that whatever higher powers might dictate the universe had a particular affinity for watching him squirm. Because, really. He had a thesis to draft. He didn’t have _time _to think about Martin’s dimpled smile, no matter how endearing it might be. 

\---

Jon walked upstairs intent on catching the bus and finishing whatever work he could at the apartment. There was no one at the orchard stand, which was odd, but he didn’t really have time to reflect on it. He was just about to exit through the back door when he heard frustrated whispering. 

_“Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos_

_Adsidue veniebat. ibi haec incondita solus_

_montibus et silvis studio iactabat inani;.”_ [4]

Martin furrowed his brow at the paper, crinkling his nose. He was sat in a small desk, in a corner. The pencil looked tiny in his hand, Jon noticed, but his handwriting was orderly and neat.

“Is that -”

“Jon!” Martin started, eyes wide. “Christ, Jon, I didn’t see you come up.”

“Sorry. Is that Vergil?”

Martin looked sheepishly down at the page. “Yeah, it is. Having a bit of trouble with it though. My Latin is shit.”

Jon hummed and leaned over Martin’s shoulder. The page was covered in eraser shavings and arrows, connecting words and phrases with modifiers and English definitions. While Martin’s handwriting was nice, his organization was clearly not, and a cursory glance at his translation revealed that neither was his Latin.

“Oh. It is rather shit.”

Something inside of him winced. Better try that one again. Jon cleared his throat.

“Would you… would you like some help?”

Martin looked up again. It was different seeing him from this angle. “You know Latin?” he asked. Jon shrugged.

“Undergrad,” he said, elaborating no further. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I- I would, yeah,” said Martin. He looked grateful, almost tentatively so. Like he was afraid Jon would rescind the offer as quickly as he had given it. Earnest, Jon thought, that was the word. With eyes that looked soft, and- oh, Christ, now he was staring.

“So… you could, pull up a chair, or…”

“Right,” Jon said, and they got to work.

Martin’s Latin was shit, but he was an attentive student, despite Jon’s abysmal lack of patience for teaching. He stuttered and blushed as Jon pointed long, accusing fingers at Martin’s scribbled grammatical mistakes, and corrected them with cautious understanding. The passage was not one Jon had read in particular before. Something about the simplicity of the farming life and the burdens of love. But the language was gorgeous, as it always was in Vergil, no matter how Martin managed to butcher it.

They sat crowded slightly together around the small table. Jon was trying valiantly to stop cataloging the small points of contact between them, Martin brushing against his arm, Martin’s knee knocking into his. The light from the window turned warmer and softer as the sun went down. “I should probably get going,” Martin said with a yawn. “Got to check the trees tomorrow morning, for flies and such. The season’s getting busy, I might not be around for a while.”

Jon cleared his throat and nodded. “Of course, yes.”

Martin gathered up his things and placed them neatly into a bright yellow folder. He’d drawn a crude sunflower in permanent marker on the front, and it really wasn’t fair, Jon thought, how endearing that was. Martin looked up with a small smile.

“Thank you. For helping,” he said. Jon nodded stiffly. Martin stood up to leave, and Jon was struck by the sudden urge to take his hand and implore him to stay.

“Martin-”

“Yes?”

Jon swallowed, nervous suddenly, for no discernable reason. “You can come down. To the archives, I mean. If you- if you need more help.”

Martin’s face lit up bright as his sunflower folder.

\--- 

“You’re moping.”

Jon looked up, affronted. “I- I most certainly am not- _Moping_.”

There were times when Jon was sure he’d seen every variation possible on Georgie’s _you are a moron_ expression, but she never failed to prove him wrong. “You are sitting on my couch. You are drinking red wine. You are listening to _Tchaikovsky_, which you _never _do. You. Are. Moping.”

“I can listen to Tchaikovsky[5],” Jon muttered.

“Absolutely you cannot,” Georgie said, switching the record player firmly off and sitting beside him on the couch. “It’s the same as if you came home to find me listening to Adele.” Jon glared and took another sip of his wine.

“I’m not moping,” he insisted. “I am perfectly content. I am making progress with the university deed. Martin is kind, and-”

“I haven’t even said Martin’s name, Jon,” Georgie interrupted. “You’ve got it bad.”

Jon affixed her with what he hoped was his most withering stare. She did not so much as wilt.

“Why don’t you just ask him for dinner?” she asked brightly. Jon snorted. “No, seriously. Why not?”

“You know better than anyone I’m- how did you put it? ‘Incapable of getting out of my own head long enough to think about other people’, Georgie,” he said.

“Jon,” she said, turning towards him. “That was years ago. And I wouldn’t have let you be my roommate if you hadn’t _learned _anything from then.” He sighed and was rewarded with another version of the _you are a moron_ expression, which really was becoming distressingly common. “Why not?”

“He doesn’t…” Jon hesitated. “Look, Georgie, I appreciate you looking out for me, I do, but it’s really not necessary to-”

“Jon.” Her voice was more serious now. “What do you have to lose?”

_ His kindness. His laugh. His help. His shit Latin. His quiet company. This twisting feeling in my chest that I haven’t felt in a very long time, in maybe forever, that feels hopeful and fearful all at once._

“The scones, I suppose,” said Jon. After too long a pause.

**\---**

Someone was knocking frantically at the archive door. 

“Yes, come in- oh, Martin!” said Jon. “I- I thought you said you wouldn’t be around, I - ”

“I know! I was, I was at the farm, but I went into the basement, and I found - ” He rushed into the office in a flurry. He didn’t even appear to have apology baked goods. “I found a _lot _of- of documents, of property ownership documents, and one of them might be - ”

“The deed?” said Jon. “Martin, I- Are you sure?” 

“No,” said Martin, still looking a bit frantic, “There were so many papers, and I didn’t want to- to move them around too much, but the first one I saw was for the university, I just - I just think you might want to come over and take a look?” 

This last part was said with rapidly rising speed and pitch. Jon fought the losing battle against mentally cataloguing this as _adorable. _ “I - yeah, I’ll try, should I - where are they, exactly?” 

“They’re in the basement of the farmhouse,” Martin said. “I can give you the address. I didn’t want to take them anywhere, they seem quite old, and I don’t know what Peter - Mr. Lukas, that is, the owner, what he would think, and - ”

“_Thank _you, Martin,” Jon said, feeling the bright strings of hope pull taunt in his chest. “When, ah, when can I come over?” 

Martin fiddled with the ends of his knitted sweater sleeves. “Today, if you’d like, I mean, isn’t your, isn’t your deadline coming up? Today’s fine, if you can, that is, I’m sure you’re busy - ” 

“Yes, I can, let me get the address - ”

Martin left soon after giving the details. Jon took a long, slow breath. Best not to get carried away, he reminded himself. Sure, it might be - but it certainly was a long shot, and he couldn’t be certain, so there was no reason for - for _butterflies. _It was just research. 

A long-awaited light in the dark for his research, though. _And a chance to spend some more time with Martin, _said his treacherous, treacherous brain. If Georgie could see him now.

**\---**

“In 500 feet, turn left at the fork.” 

Jon looked at the GPS with raised eyebrows. There did not seem to be a fork in what he was driving on, which could only charitably be called a road. His tiny car shuddered with the effort of rolling over the gravel. 

“Turn left at the fork.” 

He squinted in the midafternoon sun. There might be another road there, or the driveway, but it was just as likely a path for deer, or something. No signs, either. _Well, I came this far, _Jon thought, and dragged the old car to the left like he was leading it to the guillotine. 

This road didn’t even have gravel, and it was getting very hard to see with his tires kicking up dust everywhere. At least it hadn’t rained in a while. His car would surely not fare much better. What a terrible way to go, trapped in the mud in his shit car until Martin showed up to axe-murder him. 

Okay, he should probably be sleeping more, Jon thought. His car rolled to a stop in a small clearing. A sturdy farmhouse overlooked hills blanketed in trees, a rich quilt of leaves red and brown and gold. 

Jon wrapped his cardigan closer around his shoulders. The wind swirled the dry leaves around his ankles. He rapped sharply on the old wooden door, and he heard some cluttering from inside before it swung open. 

“Jon! Come in, come in, it’s getting chilly,” said Martin, like he was surprised to see Jon here despite the fact that he had invited him. 

“Ah- yeah, thanks,” Jon said, and stepped over the threshold. The floorboards creaked with every step they took through the slightly gloomy corridor. There were some photographs on the wall, as well, but they looked very old. “Are these… your family?” he asked. 

Martin laughed like the idea was both preposterous and slightly disturbing. “Oh no,” he said, leading them down a narrow staircase. “It’s- the Lukas family? They own the place. Peter’s the only one who ever comes here, though, and even he’s not here very often.” 

“Seems an odd way to run a business.” 

Martin shrugged. “They- well, they certainly don’t need the money,” he said. At the bottom of the staircase he pushed open a door and gestured Jon inside. 

The basement room was chilly, but mostly dry, which Jon figured was good for any documents stored down here. There were a few pieces of old wooden furniture and a door off to the side. “Wine cellar,” Martin explained, and brought him to what looked like it used to be a dresser. 

It was ornate, with spiraling, art-nouveau vines carved along the sides. “I started taking things out of the top drawers,” Martin said, “But I hadn’t quite finished, I- I hope that’s alright?” 

“I- yes, thank you,” said Jon. He knelt down to the bottom drawer and pulled. It very stubbornly resisted. 

“Oh- Let me help you with that,” said Martin, bending down next to him. His shoulder pressed against Jon’s, which brought about more of the aforementioned stubborn butterflies. The old drawer creaked as it was dragged open. 

Inside were pages upon pages of deeds and titles. Jon gave a cursory glance over the dates, which did look tantalizingly close to the period he needed. He shuffled through the stack, date after date, when he, well, sneezed_. _

Martin launched into a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like covered laughter. “Sorry, sorry, let’s take these upstairs,” he said, gathering some of the papers. The corners of his mouth were still slightly upturned, despite his obvious efforts. 

Jon scowled, mostly out of habit. “What, pray tell, is so amusing.” 

Martin’s smile seemed to be getting out of his control, and Jon’s brain was quick to supply words along the lines of _charming _and _adorable. _“Sorry, sorry, it’s just- you have such a serious voice, but you sneeze like a- like a little mouse, or something,” he laughed. 

“It was dusty,” Jon muttered, but he could feel himself smiling, too. 

\---

They sat on a covered porch in old wooden chairs, built sturdy and seemingly by hand. Jon hovered over the old papers in fierce concentration. Martin just watched the hillside. Eventually thunder broke the quiet between them, and the rain inevitably followed in thick and heavy droplets. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Martin tilt his head just a fraction, as if considering some puzzle.

“This sort of rain always seems to fall… slowly,” he said.

Jon looked fully up at him now, raising one eyebrow. “I think most modern physicists would disagree with you there.”

Martin blushed, ever so slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, shaking his head. “Rain like this… it takes its time.”

The thunder rolled again. Jon went back to his documents. Something warm was curling in his chest, despite the coolness of the rain, and he felt his thoughts… drifting, slowly wandering away from Martin’s old papers and towards Martin himself. Poetry had never been clear to Jon, not really, but there was something about the way Martin spoke sometimes. It reminded him of the few poems he had read but never researched, never searching for author’s intent or audiences’ reactions. The poems he left to just the sound of the words, the rhythm of the meter, sitting quietly together in the rain.

\---

Jon stayed up late into the night to finish his draft. Martin insisted on staying with him, but was mostly quiet. He laid sideways on the couch, head propped against the armrest, and read a thin paperback of Keats. And then Martin fell asleep, and he wasn’t- he wasn’t snoring, exactly, but he was close enough that Jon could hear the soft rhythm of his breathing. It was slow, his own breathing falling in line with the steadiness of it. And maybe Jon looked over once or twice, while he typed, and noticed Martin’s long eyelashes dusting the very tops of his cheeks. Maybe he watched the rise and fall of Martin’s chest and wondered what it’d be like to lay his head there, against Martin’s heart.

Time passed slowly that night in the orange-tinged glow of his laptop screen. Jon felt so… so _steady_, and so calm, that he barely noticed flipping over the last page of the deed. The draft was finished. He let out a soft sigh and closed the laptop shut.

Martin was still fast asleep, it seemed, so he figured he’d try to drive back to Georgie’s. He stood up, muscles aching from sitting still for so long, and took a cautious step towards the door- but the ancient floorboards gave a mighty creak. Martin stirred.

“Jon?” he mumbled, voice rough from sleep.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Martin. I- I was just leaving,” Jon whispered back.

“Mm, no, you -” Martin yawned and mussed his already-tousled hair. “You shouldn’t drive, you haven’t slept.”

“I- I’m fine, I’m really not tired, Martin, I can– ”

“Stay,” said Martin, and Jon felt a warm hand catch his wrist. He felt his heart do the sort of nonsense hearts do in old songs. 

“Alright,” he said, barely even able to hear himself, and let Martin pull him back.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183274959@N02/48496510321/in/photostream/)

\---

Jon opened his eyes, bleary from sleep. He had no idea what time it was, although the sun filtering through the shades didn’t seem all that bright. It was chilly, too, in the way that fall mornings are, but there was a warm presence at his back.

_Martin, _he thought. A bright ball of happiness and nervous energy rose into his chest. He could hear the faintest whisper of Martin’s breath. He was reminded of an old poem he’d read- John Donne, he thought it was. 

_Busy old fool, unruly sun_

_ Why dost thou thus,_

_ Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?_

He used to hate that poem, Jon remembered. Read it for some daft English professor. He thought it was unnecessary, stilted, and awkward, and- and _cheesy. _ Worse than Keats, even. It had felt like whining to him then, John Donne complaining that the sun was coming up to wake him and his lover. It still was ridiculous, of course, even in memory, but –

_Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,_

_ Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time._

But Jon wanted to stay. Stay here, on a ratty old couch, in a drafty farmhouse, the sun’s glare painful in his eyes. An uncomfortable cramp in his neck and a creeping tiredness behind his temple. Yes. He wanted to stay right here with Martin, warm and solid against him, daylight be damned.

_Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,_

_ In that the world’s contracted thus._

_ Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be_

_ To warm the world, that’s done in warming us._

He took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Trying to hold on to the last few minutes of peace, just as selfish as Donne. Martin shifted slightly and wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulder. He was so _warm. _Jon felt- present, grounded, safe, _cared for, _and _Christ _he didn’t want to lose this. To lose Martin. 

The nervous fluttering began again in Jon’s chest, but he stamped it down. He could feel Martin’s breathing against his back, rising and falling, and he fell asleep again, rocked by that tide.

**\---**

It was finally, blissfully, over. 

The draft submitted, the presentation given, the perfunctory post-lecture snacks eaten even though they were always terribly dry. Elias had even come by the office to congratulate him. 

“It was an excellent presentation, Jon,” he was saying. “The historical society was quite pleased.” 

“Thank you,” said Jon, stilted. 

“And the draft- while it is certainly that- is an excellent start. Plenty of work to be done, of course, but you are progressing nicely,” Elias continued. He’d seemed in an excellent mood of late. The wedding ring was back. “At any rate, I have a board meeting to get to.” Elias had a singular talent for carrying on conversations in which he was the only real participant. “Congratulations again, and I will see you next week.” 

“Right,” said Jon, and Elias left. 

Jon was intentionally not thinking about the thesis anymore. He was considering reorganizing and re-cataloguing things after the admittedly messy search for the deed, but he wasn’t thinking about the draft, or the presentation, or his upcoming review. Jon was thinking about scones. 

He should go up and thank Martin, he knew. Perhaps give him a - gift of some sort? For the help, of course. But he also wanted to- well- to keep seeing Martin. And the harvest season would soon be drawing to a close, so he wouldn’t be in the library, which was unfortunate, since Jon had developed something of a sweet tooth. 

This was also unfortunate because Jon was now seriously considering taking Georgie’s advice. Just - _asking him to dinner_, he remembered. Martin seemed - amenable, or at least not _un-_amenable, and he can’t have been imagining it all, right? They’d shared a couch for God’s sake. Or was that simply the result of sleep deprivation and a chilly draft…? Was there any way to tell when it would be - _prudent_, to initiate? When the scales of risk and reward would tip the other way? When - 

“How did it go?” 

“Oh! Ah, Martin, I - Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Jon said, feeling his face go hot. “It was… it went well. Very well, actually, Elias was just by, in a better mood than usual, anyway.” He fiddled a bit with his glasses. “I… I wanted to thank you, Martin, for spotting the deed. I really… it wouldn’t have gone nearly as well as it did, without it. So. Thank you.” 

“Of course, Jon,” said Martin. “I’m glad it went well.” He had that - _gentle _look about his face, and an open, unthreatening posture, and Jon felt the tense strings of anxiety in his heart soften. In the terms of his own dramatic inner monologue, the scales tipped. There was no longer enough fear left to resist his stubborn resolve to _try. _

“Martin,” he said. “I was… wondering.” 

“Yes?” 

This was significantly harder than his own drama-laden metaphors had made it seem. “I was- I was, ah, thinking, about some of the times we’ve- well, seen each other, and,” _This is going spectacularly well, _his now-sarcastic inner monologue helpfully provided, “and I was wondering, if you’d like to maybe… see each other? Again? More… often?” 

Martin looked confused, which was understandable given the circumstances. He opened his mouth to say something. Jon pressed on. 

“I just- what I mean, Martin, is that I’ve found - I think I’ve quite enjoyed our, ah, time together, and I think I’d like to, to get to know you, um, more - better, I mean, better, and maybe that you’d also… like… to do… that?” 

“Jon,” said Martin slowly. “Are you… are you asking me on a _date_?” [6]

“Yes,” Jon said with immense relief. “Yes, that is exactly what I - yes.” 

Martin, apparently, couldn’t help himself. He laughed. 

“Ah,” said Jon, “Is that… Is that a ‘no’, or…” 

“No, you idiot, of course I’ll go on a date with you, I just - I just wasn’t sure what you were saying,” he said, still laughing. Jon felt his face grow warmer still, but Martin’s laughter was infectious.

“Right,” Jon muttered, smiling down at his shoes, “I - I can understand why, why that might be.” Martin cleared his throat to stop his giggles. 

“Are you - we could do lunch tomorrow?” he asked. “Away from the library, for once?” 

“That - that would be lovely,” said Jon. He looked back up at Martin to find him smiling like he had that day after the Latin lesson, like the afternoon in the rain. 

“I’ll - I’ll just come by around noon, then? We can decide where to go tomorrow.” 

“That’s - that sounds wonderful, Martin, thank you,” Jon said. He felt himself smiling in return, the tension of the past week lifted. Martin’s cheeks were tinged faintly pink. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said. “Bye, Jon.” 

“See you tomorrow,” said Jon, perhaps a few seconds after a response would have been traditionally expected. He thought of thunderstorms, and cider, and poetry, and scones. A fluttering, hopeful nervousness settled itself in his chest, and this time, he welcomed it. 

**Epilogue**

They were on one of their lunch dates, a week or two after the deed had been returned to Lukas’s dusty basement. The third, maybe fourth date, depending on your definition of “date”, Jon thought idly as Martin walked him back to his office. He hadn’t quite worked up the courage to hold Martin’s hand, but he was certainly spending plenty of time considering it. 

“We should be done with harvest soon,” Martin was saying, “so there’ll be less tourists around.”

“What is there to do after the harvest?” 

“Well, raking, for one. We usually shred the leaves, so they - decompose faster?” As Martin talked, Jon was paying as much attention to the man himself as to his words. The more - _lunches _they went on, the more Martin seemed to talk with his hands, animating himself, taking up more space with his excitement. Jon liked that. “And we do preparations for winter - it’s called whitewashing, and it’s - hold on!” 

Martin stopped in front of Jon’s door. “Wait here, okay? I forgot something,” he said, and rushed back down the hallway. 

Jon put his things down on his desk. He realized happily that his cheeks hurt from holding up the inexorable smile that seemed to always appear in Martin’s presence. The door creaked open - Martin was back. He was holding a familiar brown paper bag and looking a bit nervous. “Listen, Jon,” he said, “I know it’s silly, but I - I wanted to bring you - ”

“Martin,” said Jon. His tone was stern but he could feel the perpetual smile lingering on his lips. “I _told _you, you don’t need to apologize. You’ve given me far too much already - ”

“They’re scones,” Martin said. “The same as - when, well, when we - you know.” He smiled, flushed with happiness and embarrassment, and ran a hand through his hair. Jon - Jon felt - he was - 

He crossed the desk and stood in front of Martin. Martin looked surprised, but not in a bad way, Jon thought, and he wasn’t moving away, so Jon worked stubbornly past his own nervousness and- and laid a hand on Martin’s bicep. 

“Martin,” he said, his voice unintentionally soft. 

“Jon,” whispered Martin. 

“Do you - ”

“Can I - ”

Jon blinked. Martin was, for his part, trying not to laugh. “Sorry, sorry, you go,” he said, still halfway giggling. 

“Right,” said Jon, working up his stubborn courage again, “Right. I’d…” He felt his voice going softer still. 

“I’d rather like to kiss you. If that’s - if that’s alright,” Jon finished, and he was whispering now. He looked down, not wanting to meet Martin’s soft eyes, thinking too much - 

Martin laid a warm and gentle hand on his shoulder, and leaned down smiling. His lips were a little bit chapped, Jon noticed. But they were soft, and warm, and moving and _present _and he thought he could spend hours like this, cataloguing the shape of their smiles and the rhythm of Martin’s thumb moving gently across his collarbone. 

“Oh,” Martin breathed. He was looking at Jon like he’d seen something miraculous. Jon buried his face in Martin’s sweater. “Was that - was that alright?” 

“Yes,” said Jon. “Yes.” 

**Author's Note:**

> 11 For example, Bernini’s Ecstasy of St. Teresa! [return to text]
> 
> 22 Latin: “Wonderful/miraculous to see”. [return to text]
> 
> 33 This being largely due to brain priority No.1, which was _ think about the color of Martin’s eyes. _. [return to text]
> 
> 44 Vergil’s second Eclogue, lines 3-5. My (rough) translation: “Among the thickly-planted beech trees, continually he came to the shady branches. There, alone, he was throwing these undisciplined [words] to the mountains and the forests, with fruitless spirit.” Eclogue 2 is worth a read if you're interested in gay farming poetry. [return to text]
> 
> 55 He’s either listening to Tchaik Lullaby Opus 16 No.1, or Tchaik Serenade Melancolique Opus 26. I couldn’t decide. [return to text]
> 
> 66 In my head, this had the same sort of intonation as “Jon. Did you think I was a ghost?” Which is definitely in my top 10 favorite Magnus moments, so I wanted to include it here. [return to text]
> 
> **More Notes**
> 
> Many thanks to Emily (sillyzone), Tal (radiosandrecordings), and Aodhán (space-fiasco) for all of their help! Could not have done it without you guys. 
> 
> All apple-related information comes from the University of Maine's "Calendar of Apple Orchard Management Activities", or Emily, who is an indescribably wonderful person and a known alchemist. 
> 
> Is it narcissism to make a playlist for your own fanfiction? (maybeso.gif). https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7D1b1FxD1AFkMgWpnRaX1b?si=_76Tu2_xTh2nImJZPPywpg 
> 
> Finally, thanks to everyone who ever told me “Do the big bang! Why not!”. I’ve only ever done academic writing before, and this was incredibly freeing and fun! That said, I'm taking comments, questions, concerns, playlist suggestions, advice... I'd love to get better and try more writing in the future. I'm emirens on tumblr. 


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